


smoke on the river ( death comes quicker )

by powerbottomhux (YellowLion)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Civil War, American Civil War AU, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Serious Injuries, Slow Burn, civil war!au, oh and hux is really sick at the beginning, where everyone has a terrible life to escape from and hux is fucked up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-23 05:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6106144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowLion/pseuds/powerbottomhux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, they are one and the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cheesepotations](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheesepotations/gifts).
  * Inspired by [there's a look in your eyes (I know just what that means)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5966101) by [Bebravenow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bebravenow/pseuds/Bebravenow). 



> Thanks so much to everyone who participated in the Kylux February 2016 'Fic Exchange, this was what was supposed to be my entry but it's taken a mind of its own and wants to be multichaptered and layered. This will be a slowburn and I can't wait to see where it takes us! Sidenote, there are suggestions of underage drinking and sex between them, so know that going in that that's what the mildly dubious consent tag is for. 
> 
> P.S. First Order = Confederacy, Rebellion = Union, savvy? This is more about The Force Awakens crew than the originals or prequels, so that's why we won't be seeing much of those folks at the beginning.  
> P.P.S. I want to thank Al for being my amazing beta! [ For the next while, chapters may be updated without notice b/c I posted/will be posting the first chapters before they've been fully proofread until Al catches up ^^" ]

Everything is heavy with heat—pregnant with humidity, sticking to his skin without cooling it—he’s shivering on the cot. The man next to him has an open wound, festering and bubbling with infection. He can’t remember his name, only that when he screams he wishes the other were dead. The man is gone by dawn, the amputation a dismal, expected failure. Hux only feels relief at the absence. There is gunfire, and the clash of steel, cliches of war that make his head pound and leave him in an uncomfortable mixture of fear, apathy, and a fever that never fell. In the middle of the night (or day the way battle darkens the sky), he begins to shake uncontrollably. Spittle drips down his chin, control lost the moment he woke—a failure of his body that sends him into a panic, coughing and trying to suck air into his fragile lungs—till a hand presses into his stomach, holding him almost painfully still as the waves finish wracking through him. 

He begins to remember things as reflections—pale distortions of reality, an opalescent film over every fever dream that puppeteers his limp limbs within it. He loses control of everything, desires crushed under marching boots in favor of the dreams’ intensity.

He does not wish this—but he has already fallen headfirst into this series of memories that leave his body burning cold. 

…

He is held in too-thin arms, promised the world while the bullfrogs bark and the fireflies illuminate his naive eyes in golden flashes. Helplessly drawn into him, he believes those doe eyes only when the boy stutters just before Hux sears his lips with a kiss that admits he is ablaze with desperation.

He is changed. He grows too fast to measure in the rings of trees. He doesn’t see that promised world in his eyes any longer—only a coldness he knows is just his own gaze reflected back blankly.

He is whipped back before they grow up, to a time when they share whiskey breath in an open-mouthed kiss, bumping noses clumsily as their fingers shyly intertwine. They laugh,  _ not too loud _ , high above the trees and far from anything it seemed. Drunkenly, he stumbles, pushes him back so his shoulder blades dig into the hardwood planks. He remembers that annoyance just before their bickering slides into gasps and high whines, moans he had never imagined he would actually hear outside of his own heady dreams.

He counts the second time as their first; this time they aren’t as drunk, though they can claim they were later. He tastes of bittersweet summer blackberries—and he still feels like he’s running out of time while every inch of skin is singing.

…

He wakes with a faint sour taste at the back of his tongue he can’t help but bitterly label as unripe blackberries. But he is lucid, if thirsty.  _ Incredibly _ thirsty. He is nearly choking on the dryness of it, understanding with no little resentment the phrase ‘cottonmouth’━he needed bourbon. Or at least some fucking  _ water _ . His annoyance stretched into anger, but before he could seethe further he heard footsteps approach from the soft shadows. His lips felt like they were splitting at the seams the second they parted to speak. 

His nurse silenced him with a calm, “Don’t try.” She seemed to see the indignant fury in his eyes, quick to lift a canteen of water into view. He forgave her the moment he saw it, fingers gratefully outstretched for it. She gave it to him with gentle but firm advice, “Not too quick, you’ll vomit that way.”

Her hawkish gaze discouraged disobedience, and once she had assured herself that he was relatively cowed into drinking slowly she left him. He was more than fine with her quick-footed absence, closing his eyes and enjoying the way even this  _ shit _ water soothed the worn chords. His thoughts skittered around his dreams, rather forcing himself to remember how long he had been bedridden instead. Panic touched his heartbeat, quickened the pulse as he searched further and further—no answer.  _ He did not know.  _ Nausea slinks into an uncomfortable presence curling within his stomach, unsettling him. His grip is slipping every moment he spends in this damned cot, and any power he might have had before now was surely lost in the heat of battle. He bangs his fist down, but it isn’t satisfying—a weak hit against the blanket that would not frighten a rabbit. He swears, the yell he had imagined real only as a coarse whisper. His frustration swirls with the faint panic growing louder in the back of his mind, an incessant whine much like the mosquitoes ever present here in this swamp-infested land. His lips pull back in a fearsome snarl, and he quashes the panic as the only way he knows how—with anger. 

He surges into the memory, just before he slides into the sweetness of unconsciousness; he is directing the front line with his saber, a decisive cut through the air that is followed by the sacrifice of life for a greater cause. _ For order _ , he grits his teeth and tells himself as his horse is cut from underneath him, _ for the Confederacy _ . He barely survives the way the horse lurches, it leans to one side and should have crushed him. In that moment, he is grateful to the bastard that had hated him enough to adjust the stirrups to long, forced not to use them and therefore quicker to avoid death. He is met by smoke, by mud that he slips along—-draws his saber and sinks it into the Northerner’s chest, fitting snugly before turning as a key in the lock—-unlocking oblivion as the man drops to his knees, the fierce belief in his cause unwavering even as Hux sneers at him, pushing him back with one muddy boot. Others follow suit, his blade darting with the skill that he had practiced into instinctual—-but that first wild-eyed soldier is more memorable. There is fear of death, there is pain, emotions stripped raw in each last moment dying in their eyes. He does not try to count the corpses in his wake, counts his own minutes alive instead. 

It’s easy, really, to lose sense of time—measuring only in heightened awareness of breath, of the unfocused noise he does not concentrate on, teeth bared in a gruesome grin as bloodlust takes hold. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed the fray, the shitspray—to laugh at death arrogantly. He soars like Icarus—like Icarus, his wings falter. He is descending into the embrace of cool twilight, eternal and yet unwelcome. He is clawing at the air, screaming in pain and a will to live that drags him from the brink,  _ not yet  _ every tightly-wound coil of his body seems to hiss,  _ not yet _ . He is not done yet, he has flown too high on his ambitions to let himself die  _ honorably _ . In the blood-soaked chaos, he picks up another sword—fights as if far more than his life remained dependent on his survival. Cut, parry, slash, gash, clash—canonfire rings in his ears, misses but the force of its flight throws him off-balance and he is ambushed by a man his younger, a dance of strategists—he loses one of his sabers, curses and rolls only to lose the other sticking in the mud while the other stalks towards him with his own sword. He grasps a gun but before he can even curl his finger against the trigger—the man with laughing eyes is engaged in combat with someone else. He doubles over, loses consciousness as he feels blood soaking through his side. 

He ought to be dead. He snorts dryly, no, he survived because he looked dead enough till his own soldiers recognized the faint rise and fall of his chest. This brings him to the present, denying the uncertainty of his future,  _ surely he will be allowed to serve within a few days _ , and yet the effort of remembering has exhausted him. The canteen is hanging off his fingertips by the time the nurse returns to assess him. She shakes her head, is silent as she takes the canteen and slips the strap over her shoulder. 

She murmurs a soft prayer over his sleeping form, then extinguishes the candle’s flickering—a single glance at his softened features and she is gone. He does not dream of anything that night. 


	2. Chapter 2

The sun swallows his sight. He is left groping for something—unsure what he was reaching for when his blindness fades. Another reminder how uncertain his own knowledge is when he cannot place the reasons behind his actions. He is barely awake yet his mind is clouded with rage.  _ Fantastic. _ His molars grind against one another as he chooses not to scream—imagines he has a  _ choice _ , that he  _ could _ scream today. His illusions are what keeps him alive these days. They are the only things he can take with him besides his name. The ideals he strives for, the dark fantasies of cities gleaming slick with blood and fire as he orders the fall of his enemies—breathless promises of destiny and Fate, irrational but covetously kept inside him. They are what warms his bed at night rather than any imagined physical consolement. There are soldiers desperate for that sort of thing, he knows. He has indulged them before. Fortunately, they often wound up drowning in their own blood, flies landing on their empty eyes. Perhaps he shouldn’t feel relief at the loss of soldiers from a tactical standpoint, but there is a personal relish in knowing a man that didn’t stop when you said no had his organs rearranged to be on the outside. 

Men miss their wives and their women when at war, and many men in his unfortunate position were forced to take advantage of that. Not that many men said no despite their marital status. His worst moments happened to be before the first battle their company was to face, ready to stand as a regiment with nine other companies. Young to old, the scent of fear intermingled with everything, heightened the senses. A fear of death that had many longing for a warm body once more. Hux winced at the memory, a twinge of shame even then as he allowed himself to be a vessel of satisfaction among many other men like him. As they passed each other in the dark, one man met his gaze and they saw all too clearly the vulnerability there and the desperation. It was the only time he did not pass judgement on another. 

When the morning came and the long hours of gunfire began, he did not wonder if the men he had fucked and been fucked by had gone to hell when they were left cooling in the unforgiving dirt. Now he had the time to and he found himself not caring. They had satisfied his own need for physical comfort, they had been willing—it was their choice.  _ He _ was the one that had suffered most for it, living on with regrets and the knowledge they were nothing like the man he had truly wanted to have for himself in the hours of dawn’s waking. 

His thoughts drift, and he allows the indulgence of a daydream—longing for a distraction, as much as he had attempted to distance himself from his obsession before, it could do no more harm than lingering on his condition. He stares at the canvas over his head and he can almost see the memories wind across it. Dark hair caught in between his fingers, locks grown long and wild in a way that both disgusted and fascinated him. Much as everything had about him. The gentle caress of moonlight across his back, head thrown back as his lips curved around a wordless howl—the warmth tightening around Hux almost forgotten in the sight. His fingers followed by his lips touched to each beauty mark, the ginger remembering the feeling. The intimacy of fingers intertwined, the admittance of dependency unhealthy yet necessary to live. 

He brings his fingers to his face and brushes the dampness away, numbly surprised.  He stares at his fingertips, tears cooling among the labyrinthine lines on the pads. Footsteps approach and he does not move, does not consider hiding his face from his nurse. His head lolls to the side and his eyes widen, jerking up and feeling his wound stretch uncomfortably with a hiss of pain escaping him. The sound halts the man—who views him with an icy curiosity that Hux wants to scream at him for, tell him to fuck off and leave. But his fury is clearly apparent in his eyes as the man takes a half-step back, cold mask flickering for a moment. That much is satisfying. Hux takes his refilled canteen and knocks back a long swallow before addressing him with a voice that is only faintly crackling, “Why are you here?”

    “General Hux. I am Kylo Ren,” he answers, already twisting a thorn into the ginger’s side. 

    “Don’t act like you don’t know me Ren,” he spits, throat already returning to a hoarse whisper by the end.

“They sent me as your requested contact,” he continues as if Hux had not spoken.

_    Idiot. _  “Did they? Are you sure you did not come to enjoy my weakness?” 

That silences him, Ren’s own infamous temper flaring. Hux smirks. “Of course not.”

Hux throws his feet over the edge of his cot, refusing to speak any longer—ignoring Ren as he jerks his boots onto his feet, fingers shaking as he laces them. He swears, voice almost vanishing entirely with that curse, but he does not dare look up. He continues to dress himself, forcing his sluggish body to  _ move damn it  _ and standing proudly, chin pointed up as he addresses that watchful gaze with dripping sarcasm. “Clearly, you’re unnecessary, so you may go. I will have them change my contact immediately as, what was it you said?  _ Ah _ , I’m an ‘obstacle to your future with no real benefit.’”

That garners a cool glare, but at least it’s something. He holds himself together long enough to stalk out of the tent, Ren quick behind him. He keeps walking without seeing, without hearing—he whirls around at the sound of Ren’s voice calling out to him, mouth opening to scream a fiery retort. There is a whistle of air behind him he does not notice. But he watches Ren’s pupils blown wide in an odd unfocusing of everything except him, as it had always been.

There are shouts as he hears a scream of pain—and he hears the world as loud as his own pulse beating in tandem, everything felt as if he does not belong to his body. He sees more than feels Ren rushing to him, carrying his limp body that is not his really, surely he can’t bleed that much. But Ren is soaked in his blood by the time he runs to the surgeon, and that is when he returns with a rush of white lights—forceps prying open his skin, convulsing on the table till the straps bind his arms and his legs—all he knows is enduring pain, a flash fire that should have burned out but something is wrong. 

_ Where is his leg? Where is—why can’t he feel—Ren, Ren where is my—  _

A cloth is fumbled and shoved between his teeth at last, and he feels every goddamn minute of that fucking saw, he wishes violently to remember the surgeon’s name so he can lay him to waste for using an already-bloody hand saw. The last he remembers before blessed unconsciousness takes him, oddly enough, is Ren’s long pale fingers squeezed tightly in his own.   


	3. Chapter 3

The air is cool, and he knows he is not dreaming as the breeze whispers through the window left ajar. He is grateful for the relief from the stifling heat of a carriage, every miniscule bump in the road agonizing. He had deigned to nearly go mad from the silence than speak first. He had been told not to speak the first few days after, still mute two weeks later. He could not trust himself not to scream the first week, but that faded into a gradual acceptance—perhaps liking—of silence.

He had never enjoyed it before, had filled his hours with long speeches and speaking to his men. He chased his own thoughts in circles now, ‘round and round again. Or he would let them go and his mind would fade into no thought at all, just his own breath telling him he was alive at all.

He despised the reminder.

He can still taste the metallic tang of his own blood; however, the trail his thoughts lead him towards is interrupted by the presence of a shadow, a ghost surely—Ren had never been subtle.

Deepset eyes cannot seem to settle on Hux for long—how ironic it is now to see him squirm.

“I—I assumed you would prefer no one else to see you—” His voice is halting, every word seeming to grasp his throat in a vise, strangling him. “I ordered your meals to be brought to your door; however, if you would prefer, the housekeeper may be dismissed.”

The former general is uncharacteristically slow to respond, he green of his eyes drained to a cold gray as he answers without the typical caustic anger Ren usually roused.

“Why should my preference matter? I am as helpless to your whims as the housekeeper you would so carelessly throw to the streets. Keep her or don’t, it is no concern of mine.”

He does not look at Ren any longer than he has to, turns away as the shadow slinks away. He sleeps on top of the sheets that night.

Three days pass in stagnancy. The heat is just above comfortable where sweat beads on the back of his neck, and he can hear the whine of mosquitoes as an ever present annoyance. He cannot justify throwing open the windows of all the house, despite the fever-addled desire to do so.

On the fourth day, he smells bacon sizzling in its own fat and forces himself to sit up, just as there comes a light but firm rapport at his door.

The housekeeper he has yet to see speaks to him through it in a curt but not unfriendly tone, “Lord Ren has dismissed me for the day. He asks that you prepare yourself to eat heartily.”

Her heels click smartly off, and he blinks blearily—trying to ascertain he was awake. Not long after her leaving came another knock. Though it was louder, it was somehow more uncertain. Ren spoke quickly, obviously masking some emotion Hux did not feel like deciphering with his brusque tone. “I’ve brought breakfast, or rather, brunch.”

Hux managed to call back wearily, “Come in then.” He did not dare admit, even to himself, how much he had longed to hear another voice. Especially Ren’s own rough drawl that forced him to hang on to every word.

The door opens and he pulls the coverlet further up his lap to hide the remainder of his right leg, a bloody stump that he cannot stand to see a glimpse of. Ren carries a tray with his head slightly bent, hair falling into his face as he brings the meal to his nightstand. He is dressed simply, a thin cotton shirt and an apron over his pants. He turns away but Hux is desperate for his attention, disgusted with himself as he stammered—grasping his wrist with too-slender fingers. “Did you— _you_ cooked all of this?”

There are poached eggs on a thick slab of some kind of rich bread he has never had before, butter sinking deeper inside it. Also, there is bacon and hashbrowns that make his mouth water at one look. He doesn’t notice he’s still holding onto Ren until Ren clears his throat, and his fingers drop. “Yes,” he mumbles low, the heat from the kitchen coloring his pale cheeks pink.

Ren rushes to say something else, “Would you rather have orange juice or water?”

“Water.”

Ren nods sharply, then stalks off—he seems to walk that way out of habit, as if his coat is always flaring behind him. Hux watches him go, admiring the view without thinking too much about it. His gaze soon trails back to the bed tray, and he reaches for it. He had not believed he could be this hungry as he dives into the meal, forcing himself to slow as he hears Ren’s clunking from down the hall.

He halts at the door, letting out a laugh that surprises the both of them. His smile changes everything, in the way that his entrance into Hux’s life had changed everything he had ever thought possible. The ginger swallows, but still feels as if he cannot breathe.

“You _do_ have an appetite then,” Ren teased, amusement alight in his eyes—the abyss somehow lightening to a rich coffee color, and he must be imagining things now. He cannot meet his gaze any longer, eyes trained on the tray uncomfortably, cursing at his own weak reactions to Ren. The smile fades and Hux wishes for a moment things were different. He banishes the desire to the ragged edges of his mind. His reply is clever and cutting, a shining example of years under highly intelligent teachers.

“Shut up.”

It had sounded better in his head.

He chooses to ignore it as Ren chuckles, smile returning even in his voice as the ginger begins to eat again. “So eloquent,” he teases and Hux feels more than sees him sit, sinking into the coverlet. He refuses to acknowledge the change; yet, he is still utterly exposed beneath that scrutinizing gaze. _What is he thinking?_

_That I’m helpless, a burden he never wished for—an idiot who doesn’t hear a cannonball flying straight towards him. God, he shouldn’t be alive. Why is he alive? What possible reason could there be for this continuous torture of living beholden to his own weakness? A lesser man by one leg less. How could he have been so blind to everything?_

_Why am I so blind?_

His fork skitters, bounces off the tray and rolls across the floor. He loses focus, he can’t breathe— _can’t breathe, fuck where’s, why can’t I, breathe, breathe, breathe, exhale, inhale, breathe—_ “Breathe, inhale two three four, exhale two three four five, inhale—”

 _Ren, Ren why can’t I—_ “Breathe, inhale two three four, exhale two three four five, inhale—”

_Ren._

The knot in his chest untangles slowly, and he is unsure how much time has passed till he realizes he is held too tight in arms that he knows aren’t as skinny as they once were. It would be easier to pretend he still needs him, enjoy the warmth a moment longer. Ren is already looking down at him, and he reluctantly pulls back. His hands drop limply to his lap and Ren seems unsure what to do with himself, concern in his eyes that Hux can’t meet.

He says nothing. Ren replies in kind.

The man stands slowly, seeming to linger as he gathers the dirty plates and utensils. Hux waits till he turns to leave, a fragile bubble of words that might burst upon being heard.

“Thank you.”

He is glad the only sign Ren heard him is a long pause at the door, then he is gone.


	4. Chapter 4

All he could seem to see was Ren sitting there, on the window seat—the hair brushing his cheek, head slightly turned towards the doctor with all the poise of a crow. He should listen, should remember that the doctor had been sent for because of him. But he is far too willing to ignore his better judgement and simply watch Ren’s dark eyes dart to the sheets of paper detailing everything wrong with him.

A frown creases his mouth, and Hux begins idly thinking of all the things that mouth used to do. There was no real reason to hide the memories from himself, not when he had nothing else to remind him he was something before he became the shattered pieces that could hardly be called a man at all, worthless and repulsive.

The physician continues to drone on and on, so Hux feels himself slip into his memories willingly.

     His voice is young, too innocent despite what they’ve done, “Hux?”

    “Do we have to speak?”

    “I was thinking—” he continues as if Hux hadn’t protested at all.

     He hates when Ren thinks, he thinks too much and it’ll ruin the haze he’s still in, so he props himself up on one elbow. “Ren,” he breathes—a prayer, “Unbutton your pants.”

    “Wha—”

    “Just. Shut up, and unbutton your goddamn pants.”

    Ren blinks and obeys nervously, pale fingers sliding down.

    He shifts, lowers himself over Ren. His head bows.

    Ren’s breath hitches and his fingers knot themselves _too tight, so good_ in his hair.

    He hasn’t done this much, never to Ren.

    Ren moans brokenly.

    He thinks he’s doing pretty good.

    Ren’s thighs shake. He’s making the best _the worst_ faces.

    If Ren keeps making those noises, he might just come again from that.

    Ren cries out his name as he manages to let him in, nose in tight curls.

    He tastes like—

 

“Hux!” Ren.

The physician looks at him with deep concern behind his glasses. Ren looks just as sickeningly worried. _Why the fuck do you need to care?_

“My apologies,” he says politely without any further explanation to his burning cheeks. The doctor clears his throat and Ren gives him a final glance before the man continues.

“You will need to try and get out of bed, I fear bedrot if you continue as you have. I realize that this may be difficult on your mental health, but you must learn to cope with your life. You do not need to be grateful nor happy about it.” The statement surprises him.

“I’m more familiar than most with your situation,” he said with a gentle smile, lifting his pant leg to reveal a carved prosthetic, swirls in the oak that are fascinating—even Ren left entranced, till he drops the fabric again and both men return to the doctor’s warm eyes.

“That’s all for now, but I expect to be told truthfully you’ve been up and about when next we meet. Let’s say...Tuesday?”

They nod simultaneously and the physician rises, gathering his things. Hux remembers a mumbled goodbye and Ren escorting the other out, but then he is in the church of his childhood. He is dreaming again.

_He is walking down the center aisle, towards the kneeling benches by the altar. He kneels to pray—but he cannot speak. He bows his head, and he is trying to murmur the words but he cannot remember them. His father is listening, but he cannot remember them. His father shakes his head and walks away, he is trying to follow but he cannot remember the words. He cannot remember the words._

When he wakes, the room is overflowing with darkness, and he is blanketed in cooling sweat. He is also shirtless. He tries to piece together shadowed forms into objects, looking for the ghost-pale pile of crumpled fabric that would be his shirt. He finds it, in the hands of Ren who sleeps sitting up in the chair vacated by the doctor some hours before.

An overwhelming, natural urge nearly punches him in the gut and he doesn’t think as he attempts to step out of the bed—he falls and the humiliation of it all swallows him. To add insult to injury, Ren awoke at the sound..

“Fuck, Hux, are you alright?” He jerks towards him, tripping over himself in a way that is too like his younger self to ignore.

“I had to take a piss and I—I forgot,” he mumbles bitterly.

Ren doesn’t say anything, and he snaps at the silence he was once fond of, “Well? Aren’t you going to ask how I could just forget that I’m—” He can’t say it.

Ren doesn’t say anything, just reaches out to help him up. They limp to the bathroom and though Ren does not watch, he still feels the dull pang of embarrassment. He manages to lift himself by the sink’s edge, washing his hands as he leans against the basin. The crutch at his bedside seems to look at him pityingly and he wants to break the damn thing as they hobble back. Ren doesn’t leave this time, just settles him into the chair rather than the bed—the bed his own seat.

His hands fold and unfold, again and again. It’s the one sign that humanizes Ren—and Hux starts talking.

“Why? Why do you continue to help me?”

Ren shrugged.

“I did this to myself, do not feel _obligated_ to—”

“You said my name,” he interrupts. “You keep saying it, when you sleep.”

“I don’t—”

“That’s why. You still... _care_...even after…That’s why,” he answers—halting, words caught by the darkness.

The quiet is too loud as Ren stands, walking forward—looming over him.

“That’s why? That doesn’t make any kind of sense,” he said, more breathless than he intended. He’s too aware of himself, his skin alight with ill intentions and all the things he had promised himself he wouldn’t do.

Ren reaches out—touches his hair curiously, fingers sliding along the shell of his ear, down to his chin. The touch is tender, oddly.

Then he leans forward, lips frozen just above his own. He can feel the words brush his cheek, “You are afraid. Why?”

Hux whispers but it’s still too loud, “I’m afraid of myself. Of how much I want this.”

“You thought you were above your own desires?”

“Yes.”

“Or above caring for me?”

“I should be.”

“Why?”

“You always ask why.”

“Because you fascinate me.”

Then he is drowning. He doesn’t know when he closed the small distance between their lips, but he is bathed in sense—lost in the river of feeling _him_.

Hands on his, _fuck yes_ , panting, _too much slow down I want it to last,_  his mouth is a force of nature itself, drowning, _drowning_.

He reaches out, touch turning to grip that bites into his shoulders, unsatisfied with the marks—teeth replacing nails, pleased with the moans drawn from blooming bruises that trail along the trellis of his neck, up beneath the hair he now tugs to get his lips on his again, drunk without loss of clarity.

Ren pulls away for a moment, drops to his knees with hunger in his eyes, but Hux cries out, chest tangling _too tight can’t breathe,_  “Ren, fuck, stop. I can’t—”

Ren doesn’t ask questions, suddenly holding his head to his chest and hearing his heart beating calms his own. They stay like that, too large for the chair but unwilling to move. Dawn sheds blue over them both, and when Ren finally spoke it was barely a murmur.

“It’s raining.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be warned there is a mild surrealism scene that gets dark, but it's not long and is just a dream. It involves birthing but is not gory or detailed nor involves any mention of genitalia. Also! Sorry this chapter is so past my regular schedule, I had a block then I've been trying to find a beta and it's been crazy.

When Kylo unfolded himself from the chair and left him, Hux smothered the urge to reach out for him and beg him to stay. He was above begging, even to this dark-haired succubus whom he definitely loathed, absolutely. He tried to pretend he could not care less where he went, but his thoughts wandered. The ginger huffed loudly, as he realized this... _ distraction _ was unhealthy.  _ Yet… _

 

He mentally shook himself, gathering his strength to reach for the crutches he despised. Ren had moved them, and he felt chided for staying so long in this one room, practically rotting already. The ex-soldier steadied himself, then began the horrible process of half-limping, half-dragging himself via the crutches down the hall. The short journey left him shaking, sweat beading on the back of his neck and his teeth gritted as he imprisoned the heavy breaths he  _ wanted _ to take behind them. He veered away from the kitchen, noise emanating ominously from within; at the moment, he would rather face the parlor than Ren’s pity. He decided he would do something useful, or at least, something that took his mind off his weakness as he noticed a certain instrument. He dropped heavily onto the cushioned bench, leaning the crutches on the beautiful piano—reluctant to do so, but soon forgetting the sight as his fingers trailed familiarly along the ivory keys. He sighed softly, letting his mind refocus on a single task. It was more difficult than he had imagined for his fingers to remember; yet, it was not long before melodies to traipsed from the grand piano—gliding along the air with a freedom he would experience secondhand, but experienced nonetheless. He hummed a tune without realizing what he was doing, concentration entirely absorbed. Too late, he felt more than heard a voice join his own soft hums, slipping along the shell of his ear then the back of his neck. Except, the lyrics were wrong in the way everything about Ren was wrong, which meant it was better in the end.

 

_ Lord have mercy, thy touch _

_ Has forsaken me, yet _

_ The intimacy of my lover _

_ Lies in tongues and teeth, _

_ And a wolf’s maw have I, _

_ Swallowing whole  _

_ All the things I swore _

_ I would stay far from. _

 

_ Lord have mercy, the heat _

_ Of hell, is so overwhelming _

_ The red of blood is  _

_ Deep, and dark as  _

_ The cherry wine of mine _

_ Lover’s lips, red riding hood _

_ Has a delicate, vicious _

_ Precision, cutting my heart _

_ From within, oh God. _

 

  Hux was never the type to resist a harmony, plucking out the notes again while singing a response, something sparking within him again.

 

_ Lord save me, the Wolf _

_ Has found my soul, _

_ And left marks upon it _

_ But I don’t mind, _

_ I want, I desire— _

_ The darkness again. _

 

_ I never left the memory, _

_ Running to the trees _

_ In hopes of reclaiming _

_ What was lost between _

_ The shadows, _

_ Begging to stay _

_ Till dawn came again, _

_ And the loss _

_ Of you felt keenly. _

 

The song trickled away, fingers stilling as he realized at last what he had sung. Ren was too quiet despite the whisper of his breath heating Hux’s ear, a reminder that he was not alone. His head turned, ready to spit out a bitter reproach, but Ren caught his lips instead and the words died in his throat. The kiss was surprisingly gentle, slow-moving as long fingers buried themselves in fire while his tongue coaxed quiet groans from him with the ease of familiarity. Hux’s knuckles went white as he clung to the piano, resisting the urge to further things as his pulse raced beneath his skin. He remembered all too well the gut-wrenching feeling of panic, forcing himself to match Ren’s soothing pace. He gasps for air and Ren drew back, expression strangely vulnerable as he searched for something Hux couldn’t give him, even if he didn’t really understand what he was looking for—he’s given so much to Ren already, he has nothing left.

 

Ren broke the tense stare first—his lips formed uncomfortably around the beginnings of an apology. Hux’s pride surged and he heard himself say, "Don't."   
  
Silence threaded between them, tenuous but not as tense as it should have been. Voices began to whirl in his head, detailing all the various shoulds and shouldn’ts he had heard before—yet he could have cared less the moment he looked at Ren. He swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

 

“Hux, please,” Ren’s frustration simmering beneath his words, a familiar tone that comforted him despite the snap of his anger around his name. “Let me in, or I swear I’ll—”

 

“It’s not that easy!” The sentence ripped from his throat like he couldn’t breathe until he said it, the rawness of it still echoing without sound. He looked away, letting his eyes follow the faint edges of ivy around the edge of the window, far easier to strain his eyes towards that than face him again.

 

His voice was quiet, wincing as he was honest even with himself. “It’s been years, and I never really trusted you back then—I’m dependent on you now, and I’m still cursing Fate or God or whatever the hell is out there for forcing my hand now. I’ve never felt so...conflicted over anything as staying here and letting myself even consider doing so, let alone trying to construct some kind of sense out of my own  _ disgusting  _ feelings towards you.”

 

“Fuck, if it’s so  _ disgusting  _ why did you kiss me like you  _ wanted _ me? That’s easy enough to understand!” Ren was shouting, desperate to hold on to whatever they had and maybe angry with himself for letting Hux stay at all. “What’s past is past, why does it matter?”

 

He sucked in a breath, too cold—the air was cold and he wished when it rained it didn’t leave everything cooler.

 

“If we hadn’t...when we were young...would you have still kept me here?”

 

The question hung uncomfortably between them and he no longer felt heat when he saw Ren. Just a numb resignation to cold days, cold nights, and his toes curled in on themselves at the thought.

 

Ren didn’t answer. He can’t even tell him why it matters, almost wishes he could have taken it all back and just fallen into bed with him like they used to; but, he’s broken and he can’t ask him to say he’s not, sweet as the lie would taste on his skin.

 

He reached for his crutches— _ too far, too late, slipping _ —but Ren didn’t try to catch him. He fumbled and managed to steady himself enough to actually grab the stupid things, heaving himself up and  walking without looking at him at all. If he saw those eyes, he would remember  _ too much, too late. _

 

They don’t speak. Hux sleeps.

 

When he sleeps, he dreams. 

 

He dreams he’s giving birth, screaming as the black  _ thing  _ emerging from between his legs takes something with it, and he knows it will devour the world whole—he watches it swallow, and there is bitter pride feeding on the rest of him, sucking his bones till the marrow is gone and he feels them splinter into millions of fragments, becoming dust even as he watches. He’s always watching, numb to everything—except when it’s a memory.

 

The nightmare is barely remembered as dawn’s tendrils slithered through to his eyes to wake him. He lifted his head and there was a knock, one he had never felt more dread in hearing, without knowing why the feeling crawled along his skin.

 

“Master Ren has received word your father has accepted his invitation to see you. He will be here shortly.” 

 

She was gone and so with her go any illusions of sanctuary that he had clung to, despite everything.

  
He hates Ren.


End file.
